This House

The walls of this house creak with all of the echoes of unforgotten screams
The floors of this house squeak with the worn in pattern of bare feet
Every cushion and sheet of this house smells of morning tea and cream
And all of the pictures smile back even when there is agony underneath 
And sometimes I wonder what story this house whispers to the world
Do the blinds that rattle against the windowpanes 
Tell a different story than the dead flowers that curl 
Or do they all the mutter the same? 
Do the cracks in the ceiling say we are kind
Or are they always changing their mind? 
And sometimes I wonder if all of the memories we choose to forget 
Are the ones that this house will never let. 


-anna sluder

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